


stop all the clocks

by homotional (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (bc he always has to b), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Death, Dork Jean Kirstein, Fluff and Angst, Jean Kirstein Being An Asshole, Jean and Sasha's Emotional Overload™, M/M, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein-centric, Marco Is a Little Shit, Marco is Freckled Jesus, Marco is a Sweetheart, Minor Sasha Blouse/Connie Springer, POV Third Person, Poetry, Sad, Sad Ending, Short, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, actually when isnt jean a dork, basically marco is just marco, but a very sweet lil shit, connie tries to bake, dEATH CLOCKS, has happy moments ??, if you get what i mean ??, it really really isnt ;(, jeanmarco, key word: tries, marco is a nERD, marco is a poetry enthusiast, marco loves literature n shit, sad af, springles - Freeform, that sounds cool but its not, timers n shit, tw maybe at some point ??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/homotional
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has two months. </p><p>Just two months to find his soulmate and fall in love with them, because hell, their timer sure was running low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 62 days, 3 hours, 4 minutes and 21 seconds.

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit goes to W.H. Auden's poem, "Stop All The Clocks", aka "Funeral Blues".

Jean rarely looked at the timer on his left wrist. It never really occurred to him to give it a quick glance, just to check. And on the one day he did, he was horribly surprised.

 

He had 62 days, 3 hours, 4 minutes and 21 seconds to find his soulmate. No more, no less.

 

The amber-eyed man froze in the middle of the busy street. That wasn't long. The clock must've been incorrect; it _had_ to be. There was no way that this was possible. How the actual fuck was he supposed to find, fall in love and then prepare to lose his soulmate in only two months? It was absurd! It couldn't be done. Not by him, anyway. The world around him seemed to pause. Suddenly, he felt like the only human on earth. He couldn't do this. Just one thousand, four hundred and ninety-one hours wasn't enough. He _needed_ more. Surely, this couldn't be happening. This must just be a nightmare, a dream. One, big horrible dream, that he was going to wake up from at any minute.

 

But he didn't wake up. 

 

Jean stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, still as a statue, oblivious to a few passersby giving him an odd, _what-the-fuck-are-you-doing_ kind of glance. His face was pale, a deep frown etched onto his lips. His heart rate seemed to have slowed dramatically, and his stomach dropped. Suddenly, a long, bony finger poked Jean in the side. The blonde man jumped, his head snapping to the side on which he had been poked. "Excuse me sir, but are you alright?" A short, wrinkly, elderly woman spoke, a kind and concerned look in her wise eyes. Jean swallowed quickly and nodded vigorously. 

 

"I'm fine," he said, offering the woman a small smile of reassurance. The woman glanced down at his left wrist. Jean, noticing this, began trying to hide it beneath the sleeve of his black coat. 

 

The old woman gasped. "Dear me," she began, "your soulmate doesn't have long, do they?" 

 

Nervously, Jean laughed. "No, not at all. But, I'm terribly sorry, I have to run. You know, soulmate-hunting and all that."

 

"Of course, dear! Good luck!" She said. Jean threw her one last smile before taking off to the only place he could think of going.

 

Now, most people would've gone somewhere with at least some special significance to them. Jean, however, didn't have any places like that (he's not from a bloody romantic movie and it was fucking February, what do you expect?) so headed to the closest place he could think of. 

 

His fingers became numb on the walk down, and small, white clouds of crisp mist swirled out his mouth with every deep exhale. It was dark, and certainly not a clear night, but still busy. It was also abnormally cold for Trost, even in winter. Bright lights from shops and houses almost blinded Jean (Christ, why'd they have to be so freaking _bright_?) as he walked past each building. 

 

Eventually, he reached a tall building in the centre of Trost, which, luckily, had most of its lights still turned on. He quickly trekked to the entrance. Pressing the button to apartment 64, he said, "Sasha?"

 

"Jeanbo! Come right up!" A perky, high voice said cheerily in response. Jean certainly didn't hesitate to so as she said. Unfortunately, Sasha lived on the sixth level, and for some reason, the building didn't have a freaking elevator. The first time Jean had walked up the mass of steep stairs, he had almost died. That's not even an exaggeration.

 

(Maybe just a bit.)

 

Anyway, Jean clambered up the many stairs begrudgingly, almost giving up on level three. Still, he soldiered on, and eventually arrived at to the floor on which his friends' apartment was situated. Immediately, a brunette woman threw herself out of the pale blue door and hurled herself onto the other man. "Jean!" She cried, a large smile almost splitting her perfect face in half.

 

"Hey, Sash," Jean replied, offering his friend a small smile. Sasha peeled herself off him and placed her slender hand on her hip.

 

"You haven't called in in almost two weeks, Jean! Connie and I were worried that you'd died or something," Sasha said disapprovingly, yet still smiled.

 

Suddenly, another voice came from inside the apartment. "Correction! Only you were!"

 

Jean chuckled softly. "Connie!" he called, flashing Sasha another quick smile as he continued on into their apartment. He hurriedly took off his thick, black coat, swiftly placing it on a hook above several others. He walked through a short corridor, making his way to the kitchen, where, sure enough, he saw Connie in a frilly, bright pink apron, baking something. (Jean wasn't quite sure what.)

 

"Sasha's teaching me how to bake a cake," he explained, licking some of the darkly coloured sludge from his finger, cringing as the flavour invaded his tongue. "Oh, man. That's fuckin' _gross,_ " he announced.

 

Jean chuckled. "Doesn't exactly look the part either, dude."

 

"Shut up!"

This is why Jean loved Sasha and Connie. They gave of a feeling that you couldn't hide, a feeling of relaxation, which made all your worries suddenly disappear. Around them, you couldn't help but laugh. You couldn't help but join in with their laid-back attitude and be happy and put your concerns at ease.

 

"So, Jean," Sasha began, "what brings you to the springles household?"

 

"Soulmate issues." Jean replied. Connie turned around from his clusterfuck of a cake.

 

"Still can't find them, huh?" he said, a sympathetic smile upon his chapped lips. Dejectedly, Jean hung his head low and shook it with a feeling of downheartedness.

 

"It's not just that, either," he explained, "I don't have long to find them. On top of that, I have to fall in love with them, too."

  
  


In Trost, you rarely met anyone who wasn't madly in love with their significant other (if they'd been lucky enough to meet them). Of course, it wasn't a law or a rule that you _had_ to fall in love with them before they died, but it was definitely preferred. Jean also fancied knowing what it was like to love someone, like really, really love them (his creepy obsession with Mikasa Ackerman didn't count), and, if his soulmate died before he could find them, he wouldn't get to. Everyone was assigned a soulmate. Just one. After they died, that was it. Sadly, not many people found anyone else after their own soulmate passed away, and it was either because they were too hung up on their partner, felt too guilty to even _kiss_ someone else, or simply just couldn't find anyone else who was willing to be with them.

  
  


"What?" Sasha said. "How long do you have exactly?" Jean slowly showed her his left wrist. Sasha gasped loudly.

  
  


" _Two months?"_ Connie had now abandoned his disastrous creation and was staring at his best friend's wrist, completely shocked. "Jesus, dude, that's difficult. And for you, pretty much _impossible_."

  
  


"Gee, thanks for the support," Jean said sarcastically, burying his face in his hands. He didn't even know how he was supposed to _detect_ who was his soulmate, let alone find them. “I don't even know how to know if it's your soulmate. I mean, how did you guys know?” he asked.

  
  


Sasha shrugged. “We kind of just _knew_. I know it sounds cheesy, and it is, but it was love at first sight, almost. That's probably the only was to describe it.”

  
  


“Any other indications?” Jean asked.

  
  


“You also can't see the clock on their wrist, which means you don't know when you'll die,” Connie added.

  
  


“Can't your soulmate tell you?”

  
  


“Well, they can, but Sasha won't tell me when my death day is, or at least how _close_ it is. It's quite frustrating,” Connie replied. Sasha smiled angelically up at her boyfriend.

  
  


“But you love it,” she said.

  
  


Connie smiled softly. “Can't deny that.”

  
  


“Come on guys, I've got an actual _problem_ here.”

  
  


The amber-eyed man was growing more frustrated by the second, his head swarming with “what-if”s about this whole soulmate ordeal.

  
  


And, quite frankly, he needed help, because he had no fucking idea how to do this.


	2. 61 days, 22 hours, 16 minutes and 47 seconds.

At some point that evening, Jean left Connie and Sasha's house with a heavy heart. They'd been of no help. Well, it wasn't as if they actually good be; neither of them had been in Jean's situation. They'd both found each other young, age ten to be exact, and bonded instantly. They also had a lot longer to live. While Jean's soulmate had just sixty-two days (now 61 days, 22 hours, 16 minutes and 47 seconds), they both had another good forty years on them. Jean, quite frankly, wasn't sure how long he had to live, but dear god, he hoped it wasn't long. He didn't exactly like the idea of spending his entire life without someone to love. 

 

The twenty-seven-year-old (that's right; he'd gone twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight, years without a soulmate) walked slowly down the sidewalk, head hung low, slowly numbing fingers safely hidden in his pockets, wishing he'd paid more attention to the timer quickly running out on his left wrist. Bringing it up so that it was in his line of vision, Jean sighed heavily as he stared blankly at his pale arm. If he'd just looked at it more often, he'd know that his soulmate didn't have long a while ago.

 

Bright street lights placed in a line down the sidewalk illuminated the dark streets and its light glistened on the puddles that were sparsely spread around the road. Most building's lights were now off and less cars speeding down the wide road, making the street seem quieter and less busy, contrary to a few hour prior. Only a couple of buildings had their lights on, including a small café and the colourful lights of a bar's sign. Jean considered going into the bar, but, honestly, the café looked far more inviting and homely.

 

Slowly and carefully opening the glass door to the café, immediately Jean was met with warmth. The inside of the shop was somewhat small. It had a few wide bookshelves against the patterned walls, various framed texts also littering it. As Jean glanced at the one on the wall on his left side he realised that they were poems. In front of him, there were small, wooden, circular tables surrounded by two or three chairs, a small counter at the back, and a very small stage on the other side of the room. On the stage sat a person. He was freckled and reasonably well-built and was generally pretty damn handsome. Warm, sparkling, brown eyes stared contently down at the acoustic guitar sat on his lap, and his messy, dark hair falling into his tan, speckled face, his perfectly shaped, pink lips moving as his smooth voice sang the words to the beautiful melody flawlessly. The sleeves to his tight, plaid shirt were rolled up to the elbows, allowing his slender fingers to gently strum the strings of the instrument he was holding without interruption. A smile was set upon his face. Jean looked around the coffee shop to see the surprising amount of customers listening intently. Quietly, Jean walked further into the shop, sitting down at a small, unoccupied table. This man was absolutely incredible. The way he sang, played the guitar, smiled and just looked _so fucking good_ so _effortlessly_ was just amazing. Jean felt rather like a child at a zoo, ogling this beauteous man as if he were a rare exhibit. He felt like it was okay, though; this person was far too perfect for his beauty and talent to go unnoticed.

 

So Jean stared.

 

He stared until the stranger had finished his song, and even then, though he wasn't looking at him so intensely, he stayed in his line of vision. Suddenly, the man looked up from his guitar, his large, doe eyes meeting Jean's own amber ones. The latter hurriedly looked away. He blushed furiously, unaware that the other man was doing the same. Swiftly, the attractive, freckled man stood up, leant his guitar against the chair he was sitting on a few seconds earlier, and made his was through the colony of people swarming the room. He stopped at Jean's table.

 

Jean hadn't noticed him walk over to his table. He wasn't expecting it. It was therefore quite a shock to him when he suddenly looked up to see this _god_ just standing at his table, softly smiling down at him. "Mind if I sit?" The freckled man asked.

 

God, his normal voice was even better than his singing.

 

"N-no, not at all," Jean replied, flashing him a quick smile and blushing fiercely. Immediately, the stranger pulled back a chair and placed himself in it.

 

He smiled across at the other man. "I'm Marco," he said.

 

"Jean." The amber-eyed man said, his cheeks still abnormally rosy.

 

"If you're too warm, you might want to take your coat off," Marco suggested politely. Jean guessed that he didn't know that he thought he was a _fucking sex god_. He must've been aware that he was attractive. Hell, who wouldn't if they were practically a saint?

 

"Oh! 'M not too warm. More cold, actually."

 

Marco looked confused. "Why are your cheeks so red then?" Jean raised a thin eyebrow. " _Oh_."

 

Jean chuckled quietly. At least this man, this stranger, now knew that he thought that he was attractive as fuck.

 

Wait - is that even an _achievement_?

 

(Jean eventually decided that it was not.)

 

The two sat in an awkward silence for a while, listening to the incessant whirring of the coffee machines and light-hearted chatting of the people around them. Jean quickly glanced around the coffee shop. It was unique, to say the least. In a good way. Jean definitely liked the framed poems on the walls, wishing that he'd sat closer to a wall so he could read some. He quite fancied the thought of getting into poetry. It might be an interesting hobby. It might even take his mind off this whole soulmate dilemma. A voice as smooth as honey abruptly interrupted his thoughts.

 

"Poetry really is beautiful, isn't it?" Marco voiced. He contently looked around the coffee shop. "My personal favourite is on that wall, over there," he pointed to a wall next to an old married couple, "It's called 'Stop All The Clocks' or 'Funeral Blues'."

 

"I never really got into poetry," Jean admitted honestly, shrugging. "Hey - isn't 'Funeral Blues' that one from Four Weddings and a Funeral?"

 

Marco nodded and smiled. "Yes! In fact, that movie is one of my favourites because of that poem. I studied it in school and, for some reason, it always stuck with me."

 

"Hey! Marco! Stop flirting and get your ass back on stage!" A woman with a catty appearance called from the counter jokingly. Marco blushed. He threw Jean a quick grin.

 

"See you." Jean replied. For some reason, he didn't want Marco to go back up there. And for some reason, he wanted him to linger, or at least ask for his number before he went.

 

But never once did he notice Marco's blank wrists.


	3. 58 days, 9 hours, 19 minutes and 56 seconds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get in loser, we're going soulmate hunting."

Jean hadn't found himself putting much effort into his soulmate hunt in the few days after he'd witnessed Marco singing at that shop. One, he really couldn't be asked, and two, nobody, absolutely _nobody_ , could compete with Marco, the freckled _god_. He had, however, been thinking about the freckled man an awful lot, wishing that in some universe there wasn't all this soulmate shit so he could go for him.

 

(It hadn't occurred to him that Marco could be his soulmate.)

 

Jean hadn't seen Marco since the day he first met him, either. It was a complete bummer, really; Jean was rather hoping to see him again. Obviously, the universe wasn't on his side, because that certainly wasn't happening.

 

He hadn't talked to Sasha or Connie or any of his friends about the whole soulmate ordeal since that one night, actually. He couldn't bring himself to call when he had more important things on his mind (i.e. Marco, the sex god with an abundance of freckles). Quite honestly, he couldn't bring himself to even care about anything else - Marco's beauty couldn't be matched (not even by Mikasa, which was saying something - she was pretty much a literal goddess). Jean also found himself reading (and even memorising, in some cases) an unnecessary amount of poetry, just in case he were to have a lucky coincidence of suddenly seeing Marco and striking up an interesting conversation about poetry, only to surprise the guy with the large amount of knowledge he somehow managed to learn (or just memorise from Wikipedia) in the few days since they met.

 

As he walked briskly down the bustling streets of Trost on a freezing February morning, Jean's phone began to buzz. At first he ignored it; he really couldn't be bothered to deal with actual people right now (not when he'd have to deal with them in a few hours at work, ew). However, the vibrating became almost incessant, and it was really beginning to irk Jean, so he begrudgingly answered it. "What?" he answered, annoyed.

 

"We're going to search for your soulmate!"

 

Jean groaned. The perky, cheerful, female voice was distinguishable anywhere. He loved Sasha and all, but, quite frankly, he really didn't want to go soulmate hunting at that moment. "Really?" he replied.

 

"Yep! Now tell us where your sorry ass is, so I can pick you up!" Sasha chirped happily. Jean briefly glanced around his surroundings.

 

"Maria Street, I think," he stepped out the way of the public pushing past him, including a rough-looking man who had just rudely pushed him out the way . Why did Trost have to be so damn overpopulated? It really got annoying, what with the unnecessary amount of assholes alive and all. There was always that one person who never used manners, or tripped you up, or some shit that just ruined Jean's entire day.

 

"Great! I'll be there in five minutes," Sasha hung up. Slightly irked that he had to deal with people that he didn't want to have to deal with, Jean turned of his phone and carefully slid it into his pocket. He probably was going to regret this.

 

As she said, right on time, Sasha pulled up in her shitty 2002 Toyota Yaris. "Get in loser, we're going soulmate hunting," she said, rolling her window down "coolly" and "casually". Jean chuckled quietly.

 

"Did you just make a Mean Girls reference?" he asked, quickly opening the passenger door and sliding into the warm car. God, was it cold.

 

Sasha grinned widely. "You bet your ass I did. Buckle up, princess."

 

Jean did as she said ("road safety" and all that jazz), while Sasha began to pull out into the busy streets. Masses of cars swarmed the roads, all much newer, and certainly better, than the one the two friends were currently sat in. Jean envied anyone who actually owned a car (even Sasha and her piece of crap), seeing as he had barely any money to actually afford one, let alone insurance, MOTs and all that shit. "Right," Sasha began, "how long does your soulmate have left?"

 

Jean rolled his sleeve up slightly. He stared at the timer on his wrist. It had gotten significantly lower since he checked it last. "58 days, 9 hours, 13 minutes and 28 seconds," he replied. Sasha made a hissing noise as if she were in pain.

 

"God, that makes me thankful for the amount of time Connie has left," she admitted, "Have you met anyone who you think could be your soulmate?" Dejectedly, Jean shook his head.

 

"None," he said.

 

"Shame. Would've made today a shitload easier," Sasha said, fixing her usual ponytail quickly as they were sat at a red light. Jean always wondered how to do a ponytail. At school, he never learnt to do one. None of the girls in his class would teach him (which was a shame - it might've made him closer with his little sister if he actually knew how to do the simplest hairstyle), in fear of catching what Eren Jaeger called a "horseface". (He was a total dick.)

 

(Jean still thought that he was.)

 

(It was a wonder how he found his soulmate and actually got them to like him.)

 

Anyway, still fascinated by Sasha's ability to do her hair so quickly and easily, Jean began to stare out the window at the busy streets outside. Surprisingly, the city could actually get busier, especially in the holidays. It was an absolute nightmare even trying to get anywhere at Christmas. Jean just found it easier to avoid human contact and just not go outside, which he did most of the time when he wasn't working, anyway. That was probably the cause of his being soulmate-less.

 

Suddenly, out the window of Sasha's crappy car, he spied a familiar shop. It had the framed texts, homely, warm lighting and a stage on one side. "Sasha! Stop! I wanna go in there!" Jean said.

 

"Alright," she said, hunting around for an empty space to park her car. "Say, Jean, can you run on in and get us a couple of coffees?"

 

"'Course!" Jean replied, unbuckling his belt in record time and opening the car door (Sasha _had_ slowed down, by the way - Jean wasn't jumping out of a moving car).

 

Sasha laughed softly. "You're eager. Cappuccino, please," she said, her usual grin set upon her lipstick-clad lips. Jean nodded in appreciation and got out of the car exceptionally quickly, sprinting across the road away from the vehicle. Briefly peering in the window of the shop, Jean searched the building for a particular freckled god. He knew there was a rather large unlikelihood that Marco would actually be in there, but hey, it wouldn't hurt to check. It was a mystery, even to Jean himself, why he didn't just go in and take a look. It may have been easier. It certainly would've been easier than peering in a window for a couple of minutes, appearing insane to some. I mean, nobody just stared into a shop for a few minutes - they looked for a couple of seconds (tops) and then quickly made their decision of whether they wanted to go in or not. They didn't wait outside! It was just creepy.

 

Eventually, somehow Jean plucked up the courage to actually walk inside. He hadn't seen Marco through the window; perhaps he just wasn't there. It wouldn't be surprising. Jean couldn't expect the guy just to be there by coincidence when he casually swung by to get a coffee with his friend. He probably had things to do.

 

As Jean casually wandered into the warmth of the shop, he quickly glanced around the shop another time, his eyes shortly landing on a table in the corner. It was a table right at the back, hidden away safely. It was unable to be seen from outside the shop. Jean's breath hitched. It was Marco, the speckled sex god, once again. He sat there, clutching a warm mug in his slender, calloused fingers, smiling and laughing with two women - an absolutely beautiful shorter one with gorgeous golden hair and bright, wide blue eyes, and a taller one, somewhat resembling Marco himself, with a collection of freckles smattered across her cheeks and nose and her mouse hair pulled back into a ponytail. The taller one looked intimidating, her arm around the shorter girl and her brown eyes slightly narrow. Despite the two girls sat with him (they were both reasonably attractive - it was just that the blonde one looked like a princess from a fictional fairy-tale or something), Marco, in Jean's opinion, still looked, by far, the best. Marco's dark hair was still messy - and ultimately still sexy - and fell into his face, and his eyes were still soft and warm. Quite frankly, the only thing different about him was his clothes. Instead of the plaid shirt Jean saw him wear a couple of days prior, the man was wearing a faded, black _My Chemical Romance_ shirt.

 

"Jeanbo!" A cheerful voice called, "Did you find us a table?" Jean didn't take his eyes off Marco. Sasha peered in the direction in which her friend was looking in for a second or two. "God, he is attractive, isn't he? Like some sort of _angel_ ," she commented. Jean scowled. She _had_ her soulmate, she could back the fuck off from the god.

 

"I know right," he replied, his amber eyes landing on his friend.

 

"Did you at least order our coffees?" Jean shook his head. Sasha grinned. "You're actually fucking useless."

 

Suddenly, the freckled girl's sly, narrow eyes landed on Jean. Jean took no notice of this. However, he certainly _did_ take notice when the woman tapped Marco on the shoulder lightly and not-so-discreetly pointed over to the man stupidly staring at him like an innocent schoolgirl in love. His face flushed and he immediately looked away. That unfortunately meant that he missed Marco's sweet, fond smile.

 

A few seconds later, Jean heard a familiar voice.

 

"Hey."

 

The shorter man looked up to see the gorgeous freckled face that had been the prime of his existence for the past few days. "Hello," Jean murmured, looking down once again, a sheepish smile set upon his long face.

 

"I was hoping to see you here again, truthfully-" Jean smiled, but didn't hear the rest. The word "soulmate" kept flashing in his head. He didn't know what it meant. Of course, he knew that it meant true love. It meant undying attention. It meant misheard names, misread words, late nights. Everything was no longer focused on you, but on the person who stole your heart. It was sadness, happiness, worry, concern and excitement all at once. It was putting someone else first. True love was a heavy heart whenever they weren't with you. It was throbbing heartache when they went away. It was when your heart fluttered when you saw them smile. It was when something so tiny became a trigger for a million lyrical images and memories, something so wonderful. It was like synesthesia for anything related to that person. It was protection, it was terror, it was comfort. It was disbelief that you'd found the one, something so remarkable that you could only dream of it. It was when your life suddenly got turned around by one person, this one outstanding, sensational person, so that nothing was as it looked like anymore. Everything seemed lighter, brighter, _happier_. It was when someone pulled you out of the dark abyss of your mind, your trembling fears, weaknesses and bad memories all disappeared.

 

But why now had it chosen to suddenly appear in his head? Why only now was he remembering it? His golden eyes wandered across the other man's body as he searched for the meaning. His eyes followed his legs, up his torso, past his wrists and-

 

Wait. _Past his wrists_.

 

Jean tried to discreetly sneak a look at Marco's wrist again. Unfortunately, the inside was blocked by his hip. He couldn't see it. Jean wondered exactly how he could get Marco to show him his wrists, but so it wouldn't look like he was actually trying to figure out whether he could be his soulmate or not.  As if on cue, an absolutely brilliant, fantastical, magical idea came into Jean's head.

 

(That may be exaggerating just a little bit.)

 

He would ask for his phone number. Not in a flirty way, of course, but just in a friendly, "we-should-meet-up-sometime" kind of way. "Marco?" Jean asked.

 

Marco hummed in response.

 

"I didn't get your phone number the other night,and, well, I was maybe wondering if I could have it now?" God, Jean should've got a fucking Nobel Prize for thinking that up. He was so bloody _intelligent._

 

"Of course! I was going to ask you the same thing, actually! Here, just enter it in my phone,"  Marco quickly typed in his passcode and extended his arm to give Jean the phone. Now, Jean thought, look at his wrists.

 

And fuck.

 

Holy shit.

 

_Holy fucking shit._

 

Holy fucking shit on a fucking shingle.

 

Marco's wrists, except for a bevy of freckles, were blank.

 

 


	4. 58 days, 7 hours, 7 minutes and 43 seconds.

Jean sat on his friend's sofa, his head in his hands, racking his brain for any possible ideas. He was sick of this whole soulmate thing; he'd only been searching for a few days, yet it had been the most torturous few days of his life. Sighing, Jean removed his head from his hands and ran a hand through his now messy, birds-nest like hair. He wasn't sad because his soulmate was Marco, though; he was devastated because he had so little time. This man, this innocent, breathtaking man, had just 58 days. On the way back to Sasha's apartment, the amber-eyed man had been practically skipping, jollily walking along the sidewalk with an strangely enormous grin stretched across his face. He hadn't told Marco, he felt no need to. Jean's happiness didn't last for long, though. It ended straight away when he caught a glimpse of his wrist from the corner of his eye. Marco's timer was running out, second by second. It was astonishing, really. But certainly in a bad way. Marco seemed so jolly, and was blissfully unaware of the fact that the end of his live was horribly nigh; Jean couldn't help but feel down.

 

He badly wanted to tell Marco. Jean just wanted to call the guy that instant and tell him everything; the soulmate business and how low his timer was. Unfortunately, he couldn't. He didn't want Marco to be sad near the end of his life. Hell, Marco didn't deserve to be unhappy. He had to be happy. And it might just freak him out, this whole soulmate problem. However, Jean knew that he'd have to get Marco to fall in love with him in the next fifty-eight days, and he was prepared to do so. But Jean wasn't sure that he was prepared to fall in love himself. Definitely not when the person he had to fall in love with was so close to dying. He didn't want to fall in love with someone, have a brief love and then lose them so quickly. Not for his first and last love. No - he'd rather just not love someone than lose them so damn quickly. He'd rather be alone.

  
  


"Jean," Sasha began slowly, "are you absolutely sure that Marco's wrist didn't have a timer on it?" After noticing that Marco's wrists were blank, the two friends had (after a magical few minutes listening to him play, of course) abruptly left the café to sort the whole thing out, like when they were going to tell him, if they were going to tell him, where, etc. But when Jean saw the timer rapidly running out from the corner of his eye, when they got to Sasha's shared apartment, he didn't want to talk about it. The only question Sasha had asked him in the last twenty minutes was if he was sure that Marco was his soulmate.

  
  


"Goddamit, Sasha, for the thirty-fifth fucking time, _yes_ , yes Marco had no fucking timer on his fucking wrist!" Jean angrily snapped, bitterly glaring at the girl sat beside him.

  
  


“Sorry. I'm only trying to help,” she replied, sheepishly biting her lip, avoiding looking at Jean and looking like she was about to burst into a flood of tears. Frustratedly, Jean sighed. He slid his slender arm around her shoulders. “I'm sorry, Sash,” he apologised, “I just have no fucking idea what to do. I mean, I don't want to fall in love with someone who has so little time. But I don't want to never experience the feeling of falling in love,” Sasha gently rested her head on Jean's shoulder. “And I feel so fucking – agh! I don't even know! He's so blissfully unaware that the end of his life is so fucking close and he's so fucking happy ad golden and smiley and he's literally a fucking impersonation of the fucking sun and he doesn't deserve to die!” Tears began to form in Jean's eyes. He didn't know whether they were from frustration, sadness or guilt. “And I just – I don't want him to die. Fuck, I've met him twice! I shouldn't care so fucking much,” he quickly wiped away the tears that had fell from his eyes on his sleeve. Sasha didn't need to know he was crying. He never cried. Not in front of anybody, at least.

  
  


Sasha looked up suddenly. “Jean, don't you dare cry, or I'll cry too and we'll be huge piles of watery mush.”

  
  


“I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying, Sash. I've just met him. I shouldn't care this much,” more tears slid down Jean's pale face, and this time he didn't bother wiping them away. At this point, Sasha's eyes had become far more glassy.

  
  


“I told you not to cry, you dick!”

  
  


“I'm sorry! I can't help it!”

  
  


So there Sasha and Jean sat, holding each other as they transformed into two lumps of watery mess, only for a very startled Connie to find them forty minutes later.

  
  


Jean later concluded that he would tell Marco and them protect him with his very life. He was his soulmate, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that ending was so cheesy I'm so rry


	5. 51 days, 4 hours, 25 minutes and 23 seconds.

It had been a week since Jean and Sasha's emotional overload, and Jean still hadn't told Marco. Though he swore that he was going to, he hadn't the courage. What if Marco was horrifically homophobic? Though it was very unlikely, he could be. (But Jean heavily doubted that due to him being the fucking _sun_.)

 

But on Tuesday February 16th, Jean was nervously trekking down to his new favourite coffee shop in the bitter cold Trost air. He was going to tell Marco. And he was not going to cry. Well, _ugly_ cry at least.

 

When he eventually reached the familiar shop, Jean stopped for a moment. He was going to tell his soulmate. He was going to tell Marco, a literal fucking angel, that he was his soulmate. Jean was even shaking, and he wasn't entirely sure that it was just from the weather conditions. Slowly, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and gathered himself, before opening the glass door to the homely café. His stomach began to churn uneasily. Jean sincerely hoped that Marco was actually there, because if he wasn't, it would just be time wasted. He supposed that he could just call or text him, but he'd honestly rather tell him in person.

 

Fortunately, when Jean looked around the familiar room, he saw an angelic smile and warm brown eyes, staring lovingly at a guitar and gently strumming the strings with slender, calloused fingers. It looked like he was just finishing a song. As he played the final notes, Marco looked up and met Jean's amber eyes. His smile grew slightly, which made Jean's heart jump just a little bit. As the song died, Jean seemed to forget that he was standing in front of a door.

 

"Excuse me, sir, but can you move? You're blocking the door," a shaggy-haired woman with a slightly cat-like appearance said. Jean moved quickly and muttered an apology. When he looked back towards the stage, Marco was no longer on it, but talking to two (extremely tall) men in front of it. He timidly walked towards them. "Jean!" Marco greeted when he saw that he was approaching.

 

"Hey, Marco," Jean awkwardly replied.

 

"So this is the famous Jean, huh?" Jean looked to his left to see two gargantuan men, one of which looked like a smaller, blonde hulk.

 

Marco laughed sheepishly. "Shut up, Reiner. Jean, this is Bertholdt and Reiner. Guys, this is Jean."

 

Jean shot them a small smile and a wave before turning to the freckled man once more. "Um, Marco, can I, uh, speak to you? Privately?"

 

"Sure," Marco replied, smiling (when was he _not_ ).

 

Quickly, Jean led Marco from the shop into the street.

 

Wait - shit.

 

He didn't know how he was going to do this. Well, he did, but he had forgotten completely. Shit. He'd just have to improvise. "So, um, Marco, uh - _fuck_." Jean ran a hand through his hair. This certainly was not going to plan and he was barely two words in. "Well, I don't know how to say it - well I _do_ but - fucking hell," Jean's face flushed. He thought he could possibly win an award with his articulation and brilliance here. Was there an award for shittiest fuck-up?

 

"Jean, what is it?" Marco looked at Jean concernedly. Hopelessly, Jean shook his head and faked a laugh.

 

"Oh, it's nothing. Sorry for interrupting your day," he replied, a sheepish, apologetic smile upon his face with his cheeks tinted red. Marco shot him a small smile.

 

"Oh. Okay, then," Marco said. The two stood in the cold, an awkward silence surrounding the two. They stood there for a short while until Marco spoke up again. "It's slightly nippy out here so I'm going to go inside. Bye, Jean."

 

And with that he left, once again turning to the small, cosy, poetry-laden coffee shop.

 

Jean kind of wanted to punch himself because of how utterly stupid he was being. He couldn't chicken out of this, this was actually _important_.

 

So, just as Marco was about to step into the shop, Jean panicked and shouted, "Soulmates!"

 

He couldn't exactly let him leave. He had to tell him sometime, and most certainly before he died. Marco sharply turned around and looked at Jean in confusion. "What about them?" he asked innocently.

 

Jean smiled awkwardly, looked down at the sidewalk and rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, you know a thing or two about them, right?"

 

"Well, I'm no expert, but I believe that you can't see your timer on your soulmate's wrist-"

 

"Yes! And I recently noticed something and - _fuck_ ," Jean looked back up to see Marco's slightly tanned, freckled face, "Do you really not get where I'm going with this?"

 

Marco shook his head bewilderedly. Jean thought that Marco had to be unbelievably, preposterously, _ludicrously_ oblivious to not even get a slight idea of where this was heading. Fuck, this was definitely harder than it should've been. He couldn't back out now. It's not as if Jean even had a reason to back out at that moment, anyway; the street was practically empty - there were no people to possibly disrupt them, and (strangely) a car only went past every thirty seconds or so.

 

"The other day," Jean began, "when we exchanged numbers, I noticed something. And it's not something I can particularly ignore, because it's a huge fucking deal, man, but I didn't know if you'd be okay with it and I wussed out of it these last few days-" Marco laughed lightly, successfully interrupting Jean.

 

"Jean, you're rambling. What is it?"

 

"Well, um, Marco - _shit_ \- I think - think, mind you - that you could be my soulmate?" Jean, once again, avoided Marco's eyes. He remained like that for a few seconds until someone became almost unbearably close. Jean looked up. "What are you doing?" he asked the freckled man quietly.

 

It wasn't as if he actually minded Marco so much inside his personal space. In fact, he liked it somewhat. From the angle he was looking at Marco he could clearly see his warm, honey brown eyes, dusted with a couple of tiny flecks of gold, he could see how many freckles Marco actually had (the answer was lots) and he could also see how fucking tall he actually was (he wasn't that much taller than Jean, but still, he was tall). Quietly and softly, Marco murmured, "Trying something," before he took Jean's face in his hands, leant down and softly kissed him. Jean's eyes automatically fluttered shut.

 

And fuck.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Jean had never felt like that before. Of course, he'd been kissed before, but it never felt like this. It never felt like their lips felt perfect together, like fucking puzzle pieces. Jean had never had butterflies on his stomach like he was now, he'd never blushed so hard, and he'd never felt so nice before. He'd never been kissed like this, ever. He'd never been kissed so perfectly, so softly. And fuck, it felt like he'd known Marco for fucking years. It didn't feel anything alike to his first kiss, nor like his kiss with Armin ("Just to experiment,"), nor many kisses he'd shared with past lovers of which he couldn't remember the name, let alone the face. When Marco eventually pulled away, he smiled softly down at Jean.

 

And Jean could only express what he was feeling with a word. One simple, purely elegant word.

 

" _Fuck_."


	6. 50 days, 6 hours, 59 minutes and 41 seconds.

Jean was smiling. _A lot_. Stupidly so. He probably hadn't stopped smiling since his kiss with Marco the day prior.

 

After the kiss (and Jean's sophisticated reaction), they hadn't done much. Marco had simply asked him if he wanted a coffee, cheeks flushed (either from the bitter cold or all the soulmate business, though Jean presumed it to be the latter) and a gorgeously stupid smile set upon his pink, and surprisingly soft, lips. Unable to comprehend how to do anything else, Jean nodded with an idiotic smile. The two then sat in the coffee shop for a couple of hours, talking about nothing in particular, brainless smiles still etched onto both of the mens' faces.

 

And Jean hadn't thought about the timer since Marco kissed him.

 

Now a day later, Jean sat on Sasha's couch, talking animatedly about the events of the day prior, a large, somewhat daft smile on his face. His cheeks were slightly coloured as he recalled what had happened. Sasha listened thoughtfully, also a (a worryingly manic, quite honestly) grin upon her face, her head resting in her hands as if she were a fourteen-year-old girl listening to her best friend talk excitedly about their crush. (That was kind of what was happening, but instead of being fourteen-year-olds they were in their twenties.)

 

Jean had only got to her apartment a few minutes before. When Sasha had opened the door, she immediately saw the small grin resting on her friend's lips, and asked him what had him so happy right away. Thus she launched herself into Jean's story of yesterday, happily listening to every word that fell from his mouth and watching him with a kind of tenderness that was only reserved for Jean. She rather liked listening to him; Jean wasn't this happy often, and in fact was rarely completely content at all, so it was somewhat like she was seeing another side to her friend, a more happy, peaceful side.

 

"And he _kissed_ you?" Sasha repeated excitedly when Jean had finally gotten to that part. He nodded feverishly. "And what did he do after that?" Sasha asked.

 

Placidly, she began to listen again quietly, no questions asked until the end of Jean's story.

 

"But did you tell him?" She questioned. Jean hadn't an idea of what she meant. Sasha couldn't have meant about the soulmate thing - that was what his entire story was _about_ \- so what did it mean?

 

Jean looked at her confusedly. "What do you mean?"

 

Sasha rolled her eyes. "Did you tell him?" she repeated again.

 

"About the soulmate thing? Sash, that's kind of what this whole story is about," Jean answered. Sasha shook her head slowly.

 

"No," she began, "about the other thing. His timer."

 

Jean's happiness dropped considerably after the word "timer" left Sasha's lips. He'd forgotten about that problem _entirely_. Fuck, he should've told Marco. How could he forget? Though he didn't particularly want Marco to be unhappy during his last month and a half or so, it was too important to be kept to only Jean. "No," he told Sasha, his head hung low as he stared at the floor. Sasha put a slender, comforting arm around her friend.

 

"I'm sorry I brought that up," she said, "but it is important. It's the entire reason you started looking for him, and the reason you actually found him," Jean looked up at her, "Are you going to tell him?"

 

Jean shrugged. "I don't know. I don't exactly want him to be unhappy for some of the last days of his life, but I feel like I should tell him. I feel as if it's too important to keep to just myself, and when I get increasingly sadder when his timer begins to run out, he's going to want to know why. Maybe it would just be best for me to tell him now, so he doesn't get too upset when I inevitably have to tell him in a month or so," he said, staring at the floor again.

 

"Maybe you don't have to tell him," Sasha suggested.

 

"Maybe not now, but I have to sometime."

 

"Do you?" Jean looked up at Sasha, his brow furrowed.

 

"Well yeah, so-"

 

" _Do you?_ " she repeated, slower. Jean paused for a moment. Did he? Could he just not tell Marco and actually get away with it? He supposed he could, but he'd start to feel bad about it. Maybe it was for the best, though. Maybe that was his solution. Keep his own death from him.

 

"No," he slowly answered, "No, I don't."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so short i'm sorry


End file.
